I. I used to wake up to the colour of your soul.

A clingy film of dampness shrouds the wall as I stare it straight in the face. It’s a game we play, the wall and I; it tries to make me go mad as it neglectfully watches centuries’ worth of residents slowly lose their minds, and I have already decided that I won’t be one of them. Some days, I’m not sure who is winning, but I’d like to think it’s me more often than not.

But when I’m not squaring off with my ever-present nemesis, I find myself thinking about him. I try not to picture him too clearly at first, because the sight of him burns my eyes -- maybe because of the memories attached or maybe because I’ll never see him again. It’s not likely he would want to see me again anyway. I’m a criminal in the eyes of the law, and the one other person who knows better is as dead as James and Lily are. But some days . . . some days, I need to see him just to remind myself that I once had a life that existed outside these bloody walls.

And we had been as happy as it was possible to be in times of war and loss.

I close my eyes against the memory of him now. Thinking about him pressed against me is not going to help me in my battle against madness. Oh, God, how I miss that feeling! Blood would pound in my veins and sing when we touched, and I never wanted it to end. Stupid me, I thought it never would; now, I know better.

When I start to feel my body tighten with longing is when I know that it’s time for the wall and me to pick up where we left off. I can think of nearly anything in that span. Anything but Remus.

II. And now that you've lost tomorrow, is yesterday still a friend?

I had thought he was a traitor.

Even when my thoughts dwell on James and Lily, they stray back to Remus one way or another. In a way, I think that more than anything will make sure he never thinks upon me with anything but hatred again. It was all maths: There was a leak of information, and something only six people knew managed its way back to Voldemort. It wasn’t James or Lily, or they’d still be alive. The idea of it being Dumbledore was laughable, and I know I didn’t do it. That left Peter or Remus.

How could I have possibly thought it was Remus? Was it because it felt like the ultimate betrayal, so the person whose deception would hurt me the most became the prime suspect? Only madness would propel me to demonise a person I love as much as Remus.

Oh, how I hate myself for thinking about this over and over again! There is no future, and the past is a demon as sadistic as the ones who lurk within the gates of Azkaban. James and Lily are dead, Harry is alone, and Remus thinks both are my doing. And I’m hard-pressed to disagree. I put my trust in a rat rather than the person who set my blood on fire with a glance or a mere sigh. Maybe I do deserve to be here.

Maybe I should just sleep. A dog’s thoughts aren’t nearly so heavy.

III. Did you finally find a place above the shadows so the world will never know you like I do?

I can’t remember him as clearly as I wish I did, and I lost the ability to muster up physical longing years ago. All I have are the ever-paling recollections of what it was like to be with him. Twelve years in a place worse than hell can do that to you. And I’m one of the lucky ones who doesn’t cry out like a child when the Dementors come.

He probably looks a lot different now, after nearly twelve years. Last time I saw him properly, we were twenty-one and filled to the brim with youthful enthusiasm -- both for the fight and for each other. He was shy about it around others and I was not, but when we were together, nothing else mattered. Not the war, not my family, not his furry little problem. We were just us. Sirius and Remus.

‘Us’ is gone now, and I have long lost hope that it will ever spark again. The Dementors have made sure of that. I have my lot in here, and I can only hope that his lot out there is enough for him. While it gnaws at me to think of him moving on to someone else, it is less painful than the idea of him being alone forever. Besides, he thinks I murdered our best friends; it’s not likely he is mourning my imprisonment or anxiously awaiting my return that will never happen.

Wearily, I groan. One of these days, I’ll say I will stop thinking about this and actually follow my own good sense. Remus will never think about me that way again, and haunting myself with the spectre of hope is stupid and selfish.

All I can really do is hope that he’s found peace, stopped crucifying himself for what he is for a fraction of his life. And maybe he should find someone else -- either another man or a woman, it doesn’t matter -- who sees him the way we did, the way I did. To hell with everyone else. What do they matter?

“Damn it,� I swear out loud. How many times must I think about this? I know the Dementors will only come and leech it right out of me if I dare feel hope. Even for Remus. They can take away my hope, I don’t bloody well need it, but they aren’t allowed to touch him.

My outburst is followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. Bugger. I could fight off Dementors, but the guards were another matter. Where the Dementors only left me with thoughts I already had, the guards had words and lies. At least, I think they’re lies, but I don’t know. I hate the guards. They hate me, too.

The man who comes to my cell door isn’t one I’ve seen before. He is plump and dressed ridiculously, and already I don’t like him. “Who are you?� I spit.

The man chuckles as if told an amusing anecdote. “I’m Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic. Perhaps you should read the paper more often.� With a harrumph, he chucks a wad of paper into my cell and leaves.

I don’t much care who the Minister is these days, but I snatch up the paper greedily. It’s something else to think about, and just for a second, I feebly hope that I will see something about Remus or Harry. Either way, it will feel good to know things again, even if the information will be stale in a couple days’ time.

Over and over, I read that issue of the Daily Prophet until it is ragged, each time fixating on the smiling family on the front page. One or two of them look to be about Harry’s age, and I wonder if they know each other. The boy with the rat, most likely, and I wonder if they are friends.

The boy with the rat.

The rat.

Rat.

It’s stupid, I know, but I squint in the scant light at the small animal perched upon the ginger boy’s shoulder, one I can’t believe I didn’t notice right away as the one I’d seen dozens of times. The breath is stolen from my lungs when I see that tiny paw, missing a finger -- probably the one used against me in evidence, the sly bastard.

I really hate rats, and he is the worst of them all.

In a perfect storm of hate and determination, I find myself slipping out of the prison unopposed in my dog form and swimming toward the mainland. The waves of the North Sea don’t dare try to drown me. I will hunt down Peter Pettigrew before he so much as breathes near Harry, and I am going to earn my sentence.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to see him again.

IV. Look who just walked into the room: The guilted and faded notion of someone I once knew.

And I do see him around the school. In the moments I’m not fantasising about crushing Peter’s windpipe with my bare hands, I think of him -- of us -- and I miss it. The years and the Dementors have dulled the keenness, but still, it remains. There is a measure of pride in my gaze as I see him converse with his students. It’s what he always wanted to do, to teach, and I am glad that Dumbledore gave him the chance to fulfil that.

He’s so different now. I remember there being a confidence in his step, but he skulks around like he hopes no one will see him. I grieve for the boys we were back then, the ones who thought love conquers all. Twelve years in the company of demons has bled that notion from me, and it doesn’t look as if Remus’s lot has done much for his idealism, either. He is tired-looking, and defeat creeps onto his features when he thinks no one is looking.

How have we come to this? We’re old men both yet still in our prime. Harry is already halfway to manhood, and Remus and I seem to have left it behind entirely. One thing is certain, though: Peter has a lot to answer for.

V. Everything that mattered is just a city of dust, Covering both of us.

This all can end. It can finally end. Wormtail will die, and I will dance next to his corpse.

But naturally, none of it goes as planned. It’s only when I have Peter and the Weasley boy in the Shrieking Shack that I feel like things will finally be right again. I have the boy’s wand and the certainty that, if Harry is as much like James at heart as he looks like his dad, he will come after his friend. Peter will be dead, the record can be set straight, I will have my godson back, I will be free to rake the pieces of my life together, and then maybe Remus will forgive me.

When Harry does come, he reminds me all over again of how much I hate Peter and how much has been stolen from me, from Harry, from all of us. From Remus. It will be my supreme pleasure to rip the life from that filthy traitor’s body, and I reckon it will repair my soul rather than fracture it. Yet Harry doesn’t believe me, hates me, even.

They are interfering. Why are they doing that? Frustration gives way to impatience as they gang up to attack me, and I feel my hand close around a neck. No. I’ve waited too long --

My words are not working, and Harry will not hear reason. His youthful vigour is too much for my wasted body, and soon I’m at his mercy, waiting for the spell to come to end it all. I wait for it to come, frozen in the realisation that Peter is going to get away with everything. The wand aimed at my chest is not going to miss, and Harry hates me enough to kill me proper.

It has always fascinated me how Muggles pray to a God. Such a novel idea, an omnipotent being holding interest in the trivial lives of mortals, but in this moment, it feels less absurd. I plead for Remus to know that it wasn’t me and that I died as a friend and not a foe. I want Harry to know that I forgive him his hatred, because I deserve it for suggesting Peter be Secret Keeper. I beg for there to be an afterlife so I can watch over Harry like I swore to do the day he was born.

Many things happened at once, but in a matter of seconds, I found myself staring into Remus’s eyes. My lungs stop working and a flood of apologies scorch the back of my throat, where they stay unspoken. I expect to see hatred and contempt on his face, but there is nothing. Nothing at all, and I think my face looks much the same. Why I would expect otherwise, I’ve no idea. It’s been twelve hellish years, but they’re gone and over.

In those silent seconds, I see that we will finally get our chance to set things right, and we’ll do it together.

VI. All the bridges we built were burned.

“Sirius.�

I flinch at the sound of my name. It is a stark reminder of the days he used to say my name, whisper it in my ear as we enjoyed the fruits of each other’s flesh. Those are the memories I squelch quickly because they are too hard. It no longer exists for us; twelve years of hating me has deadened his ability to feel that way anymore. He won’t say so, but I can hear it in the way he speaks those three syllables.

“I’m so sorry, Remus. I know I’ve said it, but --�

He shakes his head, and I fall silent. “It’s over. Done. I know you didn’t do it, and the right people do, as well. The Order will protect you.�

“But what about you?� I demand. “Where are we? Are we even friends anymore? What do you see when you look at me?� By the time I finish, I’m shouting and am gripping his upper arms with bruising intensity. Then I see that look that so many others have had these past months. He pities me, and I find it disgusting. The poor, pathetic psychopath who can’t adjust.

“Padfoot. . .�

I can hear it in his voice and want to shake him all over again. “Stop it, Remus! I’m not a child or a madman, so stop talking to me like I’m either!� My voice softens. “You used to believe in me, and I don’t know what’s real or not between us anymore.�

“I . . . I can’t, Sirius. There’s just nothing left of me when it comes to that, and I’m not good for anyone. Especially you.�

His words punch the retort straight out of my lungs because I know he is right. We’re different men -- still friends, but far beyond the hope of anything more. And I know for certain that he does pity me but recognise that I truly am pitiful. Twelve years, I spent, waiting for someone who has forgotten how to love me the way he used to.

There is a bottle of cooking sherry on the kitchen countertop of Grimmauld Place that Molly Weasley must have left, and I snatch it up. It is far too crowded with me, Remus, and the elephant in the room between us, so I seek solitude in my childhood bedroom and drink the sherry as I am transfixed by the picture of the four of us on my wall. They are all so far away from me. James is dead; Peter will be soon, if I have any say in the matter; Remus might as well be on the other side of the planet.

VII. Did you hide yourself away? Are you living through the ghost?

My hand reaches out of its own accord as I watch the horrible scene in front of me. Harry is screaming at the archway, and Remus is holding him back with every particle of strength left in him. I want to tell them both to stop, that everything is all right, but my tongue is lead and won’t move. There is no air. My lips are an illusion.

I have no idea where I am, but I know for certain that I’m dead. I don’t know how, since not even dear cousin Bella’s Stunner could kill me, but I simply know it to be true. There should be some sort of anger, yet all I can muster is the longing to embrace Remus and Harry both. I love them both so very much.

Briefly, I follow Harry and watch him scream at Dumbledore about my death, blaming the old man for allowing it to happen, and my heart bleeds for my godson. He had grown to care for me, I know that, but it isn’t until this moment that I fully appreciate how very much like James he really is yet so much more than that. I will miss him terribly, but with his friends around him, I am certain he will be all right.

It takes some time before I am courageous enough to look in on Remus. He lingers in his room most days when not out on Order business, usually alone. Books and record-keeping pass the time between dawn and dusk, and quiet contemplation replaces sleep in the night. On he goes like this for days, then weeks, until the time he isn’t alone.

I hadn’t expected it to be her, my vivacious cousin, Nymphadora, and I watch the scene unfold avidly. They sit in the dark, silence filling the room, until she wraps her arms around him and he cries. Remus doesn’t cry; he pulls a face and says nothing, but never have I seen him in tears. Yet there he is, oozing despair upon my cousin’s breast, who simply holds him close and kisses the top of his head.

She can fix him. I’m more certain about this than anything, either in life or death. I know this because of the way she holds him: not like he will break at any moment, but reverently, as if he were the most precious thing in the world. He deserves no less, and she will give him that and more. I don’t know if either of them realise it, but it will come true because there has been too much injustice already.

And I am proven right as I watch them fall in love and marry, bringing a colourful baby boy into the world. Dora wants to make the child’s middle name Sirius, and I am amused when Remus quickly says no, awkwardly stammering something about naming him after an ex-boyfriend. They both laugh, and baby Teddy gurgles in agreement.

“Then his middle name will be Remus, so he can be named after the two best men I’ve ever known,� Dora says finally. When Remus argues, she will have none of it, and I cheer her on from afar.

VIII. The world will never know you like I do.

The Battle of Hogwarts is the worse than anything I saw in my lifetime. In death, I am privy to grimmer things than war, but when that involves people I would have died to protect, it holds a certain power over me as I watch it. Students, teachers, and citizens alike raise their wands against Voldemort, and many of them never make it to the sunrise.

I feel it necessary to watch because my loved ones are there. Everyone I ever cared about in my lifetime is in that castle, ready to fight until the death, and no amount of hope on my part can quell the knowledge that some of them might be joining me here, beyond the Veil, soon. Harry and his friends, the surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix, and -- of course -- Remus.

Despite wanting to keep tabs on all of them, I find myself glued to Remus alone as he curses and hexes and shields and jinxes his way through so many Death Eaters. He is magnificent because he fights for the greatest cause of all: the love of his brand new family. If ever a man deserved to live, it is Remus Lupin.

When I see a rangy old Death Eater, whose mask is long gone in the heat of battle, hurl a curse at Remus, I scream. At least I think I am screaming. I want to be screaming, to warn him to duck or to move, but only I can hear the words as the spell flashes violent and green. Remus falls, and so do I.

Down, down, down, I plummet until I find myself in the Great Hall, only it’s empty of everything except for sunshine and the outline of another figure standing on the opposite end. I know that silhouette immediately and gravitate towards it. He turns to look at me, and all the years that had passed since we last left this place melted away. He was just Remus, and when I catch my reflection in the window glass, time has turned back for me, as well. We are teenagers again.

“Hello, Remus,� I say, marvelling at how the cavernous room doesn’t echo.

Blinking heavily, Remus cries out and hauls me to his chest. Our lips fit together as they always had done, and I am overwhelmed by the sense of completion that fills me. Not because I’ve got him back in death, but for the proper goodbye we never had in life.

A wolf whistle chirps through the room, and we both swivel quickly to look. I can’t help but grin when I see James and Lily, arm in arm and beaming at both of us. “You know,� Lily says, “we found it quite annoying that you two were together and never told us.�

Nodding, James adds, “It’s not like we couldn’t figure it out. There are only so many rooms you can quietly slip out of when you find they’re already occupied.�

All four of them laugh until James clears his throat. Sensing that this was not just a casual reunion, I nod for him to go on. “First of all, James starts, “I would like to say thank you to both of you for everything you’ve done for Harry. You’ve shown him how to be a man when I couldn’t, and that debt can never be equalled.� Lily smiles widely at James, and they share a solemn glance.

“But we have one last thing to ask of you both to help our son.�

Remus and I listen raptly, and not a split second goes by when I actually consider refusing. Harry is the only son I will ever have, and Remus is a father himself. “Name it, and consider it done,� I say.

James grips my upper arm and looks me in the eye. “Harry will be joining us very soon, and he doesn’t want to be alone.�

I want to refute what James says, sure that Harry will live forever because I want him to, but Remus nods and answers for both of us. “It would be an honour.�

Side by side, we leave the Great Hall, and all of us begin aging to our natural ages. Nobody says where we’re going, but I know we are headed toward the forest. I see Dora waving to us animatedly from the grounds, and I feel guilt for the kiss I shared earlier with Remus, but Remus takes hold of my hand and blows a kiss to his wife. With a pang, I realise that for her to see us, she must be dead, too, but it is hard to mourn two people who have never seemed happier.

“I like her, Moony,� I say, the corners of my mouth twitching upward. “She’s got spark. It balances you out since you’re so --�

“Serious?� James interjects.

“No, I’m Sirius,� I quip as Lily groans. Once the guffaws clear, we walk on until we spy Harry approaching the treeline. As Remus strides along beside me, my heart bursts with joy. The Dementors prowling the grounds cannot go near us, near Harry. They wouldn’t dare.